


Prompts and Drabbles and Stuff

by zacharybosch



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bathing, Boots - Freeform, Dom/sub, Episode: s02e10 Naka-Choko, Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, General Angst, M/M, Scenting, deep and meaningful photos of dinner, lazy water-based metaphors, making dinner more sexual than it needs to be, melancholy photo text messages, more angst because of course, sending nudes 2 ur bae, slightly provocative polaroid photos, washing, what else is it gonna be with a fic about mizumono, will's memory palace stream thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:12:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacharybosch/pseuds/zacharybosch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A place for snippety bits, small prompted things etc etc. Rating/tags will update as necessary. Feel free to send me prompts over on <a href="http://zacharybosch.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call and Response

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: phone call. of course i had to make it sad because obviously mizumono doesn't already hurt enough?? sorry everyone

Will knows the number off by heart. Not sure when that happened, but unsurprised that it did. He’s been here before, curled in on himself in the dark, pressing buttons on his phone and trying to invent some reason for his call and everything flying out the window when he hears that voice.

He doesn’t have to do this. They know now, they can bring Hannibal in and process him and sweep his house for evidence and Will can stay curled up here and _not think about it_. 

But he’s been cruel, he knows this. He didn’t have to make Hannibal love him, but he did it anyway, because he could. Because he wanted to hurt him. But now they’ve been pushed over the event horizon and it’s Will who hurts, Will who can barely breathe for the ache in his chest and the pounding in his head and the twin desires to hide from Hannibal and run to him. He owes Hannibal this, at least.

He presses the call button. It rings for maybe six seconds, but it feels like the long stretch of months back to that first meeting in Jack’s office. That initial encounter, floppy hair, neutral sweatshirt, everything soft. To create a false sense of security, Will came to realise later. To soothe and blind and gentle him, so he wouldn’t feel the noose of Hannibal’s machinations around his neck until his feet were already kicking in the air.

He doesn’t owe Hannibal shit. Let them come for him, the same way Hannibal let them come for Will. Don’t choose _him_ again.

But, oh, the phone has stopped ringing, and Will’s limbs feel detached from his body and his heart swells fit to burst and he can feel the sweat break out on his skin with the effort it takes not to shout love and bitterness from his lungs.

“Hello?”

It’s him, it’s always been him. 

“They know.”


	2. Christmas card drabbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 tiny drabbles i wrote for some friends for their christmas cards. not at all christmas-themed

**Boots**  
Hannibal’s eyes narrowed by a fraction.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t put your dirty boots on my upholstery, Will.”

Will caught Hannibal’s gaze and didn’t move his feet an inch. “Is it just that my boots are dirty, or are even clean boots on your chaise longue unacceptable?”

Hannibal opened his mouth to speak, but Will got there first. “Because if the problem is just that they’re dirty… well. You can do something about that.”

Silent and graceful, Hannibal knelt.

 

**Sleep**  
“You flinch every time I touch you.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” Will drew his hands over his face and back through his hair as he sat forward on the sofa. “I want to. Believe me, I want to. I just...”

“I’ve waited years for you already, Will. I can wait a little longer.”

“But I don’t want to wait. I want…” One deep breath. Two. “I want you to touch me when I’m unaware. If I don’t know it’s happening I can’t flinch away.”

“Will…”

“When I’m asleep. Touch me when I’m asleep.” Will turned, caught Hannibal in hard, unflinching eye contact. “Get my body accustomed to having your hands all over it.”

A dark smile spread across Hannibal’s face.

 

**Scent**  
“Do I really smell so good to you?”

Hannibal drew back only as far as necessary to ensure his voice wasn’t muffled. He continued his slow mapping of Will’s body as he spoke, nosing into soft hollows and secret corners.

“You smell of the earth. Animals and old leaves. Here, fresh sweat, and the salt of the sea.”

Further down, to the juncture of hip and thigh.

“Musk, and blood.” Hannibal nosed in deep, spreading Will’s thighs with his hands. “A different scent of salt.” He took one more long, luxurious inhale. “Warmth. Sex. Life.”


	3. Soft Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was inspired by a question in an exam paper. i don't know

“Tell me, Will, what is the difference between soft and hard power?”

Will stared unspeaking from his position against the ladder, arms trussed to the rungs above his head and knees scraping on the hard wooden floor. Hannibal began to advance towards him, step by leisurely step.

“Soft power is my glance to the ladder and your immediate response to go and kneel before it without so much as a verbal command.”

Standing before Will, Hannibal stroked one gentle hand through his curls and around to trace the curve of his jaw.

“Hard power is the ties around your wrists and the collar around your neck.” He slipped a finger beneath the collar and pulled, hard. “Don’t forget that.”


	4. Riverbank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> weconqueratdawn said: I have a prompt, should you choose to accept ;) My Funko straitjacketed Will sits on my desk and hates everything I write. He would like a prison Will revenge fantasy about Hannibal, smouldering with porn, tears, anger and betrayal, thank you <3
> 
> this has taken me NINE MONTHS TO WRITE AND IT DOESN'T REALLY FILL YOUR PROMPT AT ALL I AM SO SORRY but i hope you like will's angsty memory palace stream

Sunlight glinting off the water, and the play of shadows over soft grass on the bank. No fishing today, just the rush of water flowing off into silence. The soughing of the wind in the branches of the trees as new leaves break through and small white buds unfurl and blossom pink.

“This killer wrote you a poem. Are you going to let his love go to waste?”

_I won’t waste it, no. It’ll serve a purpose._

New growth in springtime. Grass shoots pushing up through the frost. The hatching of plans. Will shoves Hannibal forcefully into the river, watches him sink like a stone.

//

The sunset shines golden through the leaves and the breeze is warm, a barely-there stirring in hair at his nape. The kind of balmy summer evening that lends itself to sprawling, cat-like, in sheets or on loungers. Late nights, late talks, late to bed.

“Stay with me.”

 _I will._ “Where else would I go?” _For tonight._

Pleasing fruits of a labour well-wrought. Will leads Hannibal to the water, pulls at his hand, drags him down. He floats, until he doesn’t.

//

The light is less soft, bronzed and blinding, and the breeze has picked up. The verdant summer leaves begin to crisp and turn golden and fall, carpeting the grass and turning to rot.

“We could disappear now. Tonight.”

_I…_

Will stares at the river, at Hannibal, at the river again. Hannibal, eyes already filmed with tears, walks down the bank alone. He lets himself slip into the water and be gradually pulled under.

//

No snow yet, just the freezing rain that will swell the river and let its waters rush black over the banks. The moon struggles between skidding clouds, and sitting up is difficult, breathing is difficult, everything is difficult. Hannibal crouches over him and Will sees, while his body is screaming at him to hide fight run die get up accept it leave stay, the teardrop fall.

“You can make it all go away. Put your head back. Close your eyes. Wade into the quiet of the stream.”

_I wanted to run away with you._

The deep cold of winter pricks icy fingers at his bones. Hannibal pushes a gentle hand against Will’s chest, and the water rises up to consume him.


	5. Small Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hannibal and will send each other photos
> 
> mxpopsiclestix made some wonderful illustrations of the photos that you can see [here](http://mxpopsiclestix.tumblr.com/post/164283194396/so-i-had-this-fanart-idea-for) and [here!!](http://mxpopsiclestix.tumblr.com/post/164314804461/second-set-of-pictures-based-on-zacharyboschs)

A small exercise, he calls it, for Will to do whenever the things he sees become too much and he needs some small reminder that there is still beauty in the world. 

_“Take a moment to look around you. Find something that’s beautiful or pleasing in some way. Capture a photo. Remind yourself that it’s real.”_

Will does it, off and on. He flicks through the photos on his phone in the small hours of the morning, chasing away the tendrils of night terrors with snaps of the weeping willow trailing leaves in his favourite fishing stream, Buster curled up against Winston’s side, a scattering of feathers ready for fly-tying.

He likes his small collection of beautiful things, wants to share it, so one day he sends one of the pictures to Hannibal. It’s something that Will thinks he’ll like; animal bones he found on a walk with the dogs, flesh long since melted away and tendrils of fern curling delicately between ribs. He tries to think of something to go with it, some caption or explanation, but everything seems too clumsy and he cringes at everything he tries to write. He sends it without comment, cringes further when his message is marked ‘seen’ but gets no response.

The next day, Hannibal sends him a picture: the late evening light filtering through the windows of his office, dust motes caught in a beam of hazy gold. Will is standing on his porch when he receives it, smiles secretly to himself as he looks and sees the same sunset through the trees that Hannibal must be seeing through his red and white curtains.

They go back and forth in this way, Will feeling better for sharing his small precious moments with someone, and Hannibal feeling pleased at another way he has worked himself into Will’s life.

As his sickness progresses, Will’s photos become erratic, dark, but no less lovely to Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal meets him in kind, light and flowers and neatly arranged cooking ingredients slowly swapped for the marble of fat through meat, and the dark of the moon.

When Will is in prison, Hannibal finds the loss of his photos more painful than he’d anticipated. Small morsels of his mind, glimpses of his thought process, offered up freely and innocently for Hannibal to cherish -- and cherishing was what he hadn’t realised he was doing, until the photos stopped coming.

Will resumes his therapy, and shortly thereafter, tentatively, he resumes sending his photos. Hannibal falls back in step as if they’d never stopped.

He is tantalizing in his photography now. Gone is the simple sweetness of open fields, dog paws, and the cycle of nature. Will sends low-light photos of his house, the intimate crumple of last night’s sleep pants tossed on the end of his bed, the last remaining drops of deep amber liquid at the bottom of a glass.

Hannibal can see the trap even as it’s laid, but his response is helpless and immediate. Will offers him glimpses, and Hannibal clutches them to his chest. He sends the lush folds of his velvet bedspreads, warm firelight playing over the tender pink scars on his wrists, the gleaming point of a karambit knife.


	6. Small Things pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ppl seemed to really really like Small Things, so i wrote more! i am honestly astounded that i managed to do it so quickly!! what is happening!!!
> 
> mxpopsiclestix illustrated some of the photos from this part which you can marvel at [here!](http://mxpopsiclestix.tumblr.com/post/164420027461/photoset-1-photoset-2-third-set-based-on-the)

Letting go is difficult, but then it always was for Will. After prison, after the knife, after the weak afternoon light in Wolf Trap.

To his credit, he waits until the trial is over, and then he waits some more. The denial is part of it, the delaying of pleasure.

Hannibal, of course, is not allowed a phone or any other pieces of technology, but even if he can’t reciprocate, to know that Hannibal is _receiving_ is enough. For himself, Will purchases a second-hand polaroid camera and as much film as he can find. 

The first envelope arrives when Hannibal has been in prison for ten months. It’s fat with promise, and Hannibal saves it for last.

Arranged in neat rows along his table, Hannibal sees a quiet portrait of a life.

Two fat trout, beautiful specimens, lined up on a countertop and ready to be cooked. _That’s not the countertop from Wolf Trap._ Small flames, newly lit, licking at logs in a broad fireplace. _Will always used the space heater._ Carved wood, rustic but pleasing in its simplicity, and a collection of crumpled pillows. _A real bed._ Dogs, fishing rods, old boots, log walls… _He has moved away._

For perhaps only the second time in his life, Hannibal is unsettled. Will’s photos feel almost like a rebuke, proof of a life after death. This is Will, not thinking about him.

The second envelope marks one-and-three-quarter years in prison. It’s thinner than the first, and Hannibal eyes it with apprehension. Only when his minders threaten to take it away if he leaves it untouched any longer does he snatch it greedily to himself.

At bedtime, when the main lights are off and the safety lights are burning low, Hannibal curls in on himself and shuffles through the photos.

Body parts. Goose-pimpled from the cold, flushed from exertion, gold in firelight. Dustings of fine hair, the delicate dip and curve of bone and muscle. It’s ankles and collarbones, wrists and hips, and it’s enough. 

Hannibal rethinks the first set of photos. Far from a rebuke, more like a promise.

At this point, Alana has a sour idea of who the sender might be, but she’s tired of being caught up in these games and keeps her suspicions held tight between her teeth. When the third envelope comes, after two-and-a-half years of incarceration, she opens it first to check for obscene material, and then passes it on without a word.

Hannibal is still riding his high when Will comes to see him. Three years.

They know, they all know what’s going on. Jack refrains from confronting Will about it in case he takes it as an insult and leaves. They continue to operate under the false belief that Will is their man, that he has ever been their man.

Will visits more often than is necessary. Possibly he has some premonition of what’s coming, and he wants to burn a living image of Hannibal into his brain while he still can. Hannibal understands, and they spend entire visits silently prowling each other and staring, making an inventory of every stretch of skin.

Will is thankful he took the time to do this when he wakes up on the cold shore, alone.

He is examined and questioned and picked apart with a fine-toothed comb, and then turned out to the wind with a hefty pay-off for injury in the field, and a thinly-veiled threat to keep quiet about the details. He goes back home. Doesn’t really leave his little plot of land any more. No reason to.

How long has Hannibal been gone? Will finds it hard to quantify exactly, the days and weeks and months having blurred together as they are wont to do. A year, maybe. Perhaps more. Between the footage on Dolarhyde’s video camera and Will’s half-truth account of events, the FBI is reasonably satisfied that he didn’t survive the fall. At this point, they’re not even too concerned about dredging for a body any more.

Will moves through his life, unable to shake the chill of the ocean from his shoulders. He spends nights flicking through photos on his phone like he used to, fingers smudging at the screen.

One day, during the summer, there is a package in his mailbox. No return address, no indication of where it came from. It’s small, weightier than it looks, and as he opens it he can feel his heart beating for the first time since he stood on the bluff. Inside, a phone and charger.

The first photo arrives later that night.


	7. Small Things pt.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more Small Things!! maybe i should separate this out on its own but i don't wanna lose all the nice comments ppl have left :(

Life flows at a pleasant pace in Dubrovnik, in the red-roofed house nestled high up in the hills. The sweeping vista of the rocky bay is one of Hannibal’s favourite things to photograph; Will receives several pictures of it every week.

It takes Will longer than he would like to reciprocate. His small and precious things always seemed to be taken from him, to Italy, to prison, to the churning sea, and he fears it.

He starts very delicately, unwilling to offer up his tender heart on a platter so quickly. He sends Hannibal photos of what he’s having for dinner. It’s not grand, or impressive, but Hannibal cradles it dearly. There’s evidence of rudimentary thought about presentation. Cutlery lined up neatly. Will even adds captions, sometimes. 

_caught fresh today_

_made the bread myself - not great_

_burnt the top but tastes good_

Hannibal responds with his sunsets over the bay, and blossoms from the peach tree at the end of the garden. 

_I’ll make grilled peaches with mascarpone later in the summer._

_The pier to the right is particularly lovely in the early morning._

It’s pedestrian, overly cautious, and necessary.

Over the weeks, Will opens up by small degrees. He keeps up the food photos, seeming to genuinely enjoy sharing his progress in the kitchen, but now he adds trips to the lake, motors he’s fixed, renovations to the cabin. Letting Hannibal into the small cracks where his life accrues. 

Hannibal has drastically miscalculated in the past; Will continues to be somewhat of a blind spot for him, but he judges the time to be right when he receives a shaky, three-second video of Will breathing heavily in the dark. He responds with a nighttime cobblestone alleyway, whitewashed walls leaning in close, and a slight figure painted with light from a far-off streetlamp. A one-word caption: _Hunting._

It takes Will a few days to respond. When he does, it’s with split skin over blushing knuckles, delicate fingers curled like vines. Sweet, messy little wounds that Hannibal wants to lick clean. _with my hands,_ Will types.

From there, the path is clear. 

_finally made a good pie crust_

_A rare meat I’ve not tasted in too long._

_winston dug this up_

_The peaches are ripening beautifully._

_he tried to break in. never even saw me coming_

_I’ve sketched you like this often._

The mundane displayed side-by-side with the monstrous. Hannibal loves Will’s documentation of his new boat just as he loves the studies of wound patterns, Will’s meditation on his burgeoning power.

It’s been one year and a handful of days since the phone arrived in Will’s mailbox. 

For Will, the sky is inky dark, stars winking in and out of existence with the soughing of wind through trees. The first breath of autumn creeps in through cracks in the doors. A crisp hint of decay is in the air and he is possessed of a kind of languid sensuality that he hasn’t felt since late evenings in Hannibal’s office, wine and whiskey and secrets to keep. It’s easier now, not having the looming spectre of betrayal hovering over his head. Hannibal stirs liquid fire within him, and he’s free to enjoy it, to express his enjoyment.

For Hannibal, the sun is just beginning to slip over the hills, the freshness of the dawn slowly giving way to the thick golden heat of the day. It’s early yet to be up and awake, so he turns in the sheets, moves his body about to enjoy the feel of cotton slipping over his skin. The familiar alert of his phone pulls him across the mattress, and he’s half risen on one arm when he sees it. Will is generally still sparing with his photos, but now he is laying out a feast.

Soft blankets coiled about his hips. The smooth planes of his chest, creamy in the moonlight. Dark curls coiled gently against his nape. His lips, plush and reddened with the press and release of teeth. And there, hiding under tender fingertips, the most precious part: still faintly pink, even after all these years, his scar. Hannibal’s scar.

No prison guards to temper his reaction this time, Hannibal experiences the full force his want like a strike to his chest. His fingers shake.

_More. Please._

A video, not long, but long enough. Will pushes the blanket down, runs a hand over his thick thighs, and Hannibal wants to weep. He’s seen Will in varying states of undress on a small handful of occasions, but never like this. He wears his nudity like a challenge, a taunt. Will understands the weapons he wields.

That long ago feeling of intimate evenings builds up in Hannibal, and his response is just as it was then: utterly without thought or reason, just an immediate need to reciprocate and escalate.

Hannibal is not nor has ever been shy of his body. It’s a tool built for a purpose like any other, and he has used it as a means to an end, but as he bares his skin and takes his photos he feels the unfamiliar bud of nervousness twist and coil in his gut. Failure to please Will would be unbearable. It feels faintly pathetic to ask, but he can’t help it.

_Is this what you want?_

_i want to see you thinking of me_

Will assumes that Hannibal will maintain his style of restrained elegance and thoughtfully composed beauty.

Hannibal sends video. It’s obscene.

A sheen of sweat on deeply flushed skin, white-knuckle grip on the sheets, the headboard, himself. The sound of his laboured breathing, of the slick push of skin on skin, is heavy in Will’s ear, so close he can almost taste the salt on his tongue when Hannibal comes hot over his hands.

Will has never entertained the idea of calling Hannibal. His is the only number stored on this phone and it turns out that pressing the call button is the easiest thing in the world.

Hannibal holds the phone so tight to his face it’ll leave a mark for days. He would eat the phone if he could, so great is his hunger for any scrap of Will.

_“Tell me the address, I’m coming, I’m coming.”_


	8. Small Things pt.4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is the final part guys! and as a bonus we've got some BEAUTIFUL ARTWORK BY [Necronon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Necronon)! i am giddy!! reblog their art on tumblr [here!!!](https://thenecronon.tumblr.com/post/163983457253/a-gift-for-zacharybosch-and-their-fic-small)

Walking into the house for the first time is like waking from a deep dream. Will’s eyes have been closed for years and now that they’re open, the light is too bright and he wants to collapse under the weight of it.

It might just be exhaustion. Eleven hours of flying, an interminable stopover in Copenhagen, the constant low worry that the stress of the trip would be too much for the dogs to handle. But Hannibal has seen Will endure far worse than this, and he’s never looked as he does now.

It’s barely two weeks before the photos start up again. They both assume, quite wrongly, that there’s no need to continue sending small pieces of themselves to each other in this manner, that now that they’re together, the proximity will be enough. But it’s the process they miss, the careful selection, the small reminder of _this part of our day was beautiful._

Hannibal takes a photo of Will admiring the peach tree in the garden, quiet and unguarded. He sends it to him later that evening, and it’s like they never stopped.

Will likes photographing Hannibal’s hands while he’s cooking. Mostly he keeps out of the way, steals quick photos when he can. Sometimes he gets up close and personal, nestles himself into Hannibal’s back, brings his arms around to the front, positions his phone, and says something like _push your fingers into the meat like that,_ or _let the juice run over your hands._

Hannibal likes photographing Will’s hands while he’s administering violence upon someone. He has little taste himself for a takedown as messy as a beating, but every now and then the mood for such things comes upon Will, and he makes the suggestion so sweetly, like syrup dripping from his tongue, that Hannibal can do little to resist. He prowls the edges as he watches Will work, captures what he can and lets the rest wash over him as a great and terrible wave.

The bath in their house is pale stone, carved out of the floor. Will is a man for whom washing is a quick and utilitarian task, but after a kill he will soak. He likes to get messy, and he likes to be cleaned afterwards. Hannibal purchases oils and lotions, sea sponges harvested from the bay, and he sets the water running while Will strips off his bloody clothes behind a screen of intricate wooden latticework. He needs the gentle separation, the moment alone to gather himself.

Blood curls through the water like veins through marble. Hannibal photographs the sinuous movements of Will’s body, disrupting the delicate trails of red until it all clouds pink. He’s a siren in the water, intoxicating and fatal.

Hannibal washes Will’s hair, rubs oil into his skin, works the tension from his muscles.

In bed, Will straddles Hannibal’s lap, takes photos of Hannibal’s wrecked face, of their cocks wet and heavy in his grip. He sends them, days or weeks later, when he knows Hannibal is at the market or visiting his tailor. Behind the photos, Hannibal can feel Will’s piercing eyes, and the first curve of wicked lips.


	9. Naka-choko fill-in scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a thing i tacked on to a post by [avegetariancannibal](http://avegetariancannibal.tumblr.com/post/164789433839), who wanted hannibal sliding will's coat off his shoulders all sexy-like during that ~slice the ginger~ scene

Will set to slicing without removing his scarf or coat. Hannibal scolded himself briefly for not offering to take his coat at the door, but he saw now that his oversight offered up a far more pleasing alternative.

He reached across the counter and flicked open the button of Will’s coat. It was reckless, rude, and in that moment exactly what Hannibal wanted to do.

Before Will could put the knife down and take the coat off himself, Hannibal was behind him, breathing a warm smile into the back of his neck as he placed his hands on Will’s shoulders.

“Allow me.”

Will’s breath sounded very loud in Hannibal’s ears, undercut by the whisper of wool sliding down and off and away. He still had the knife gripped white-knuckled in his hand, something Hannibal only realised when it skimmed delicately against his fingers in a cold, tentative kiss.

The removal of the scarf was perhaps the greatest pleasure; the pull and fall of dark fabric to reveal the pale pink flush of Will’s lovely neck; the greedy glimpse of extra skin as Will helplessly stroked his fingers over his bare nape, disturbing his shirt collar and setting a fire in Hannibal’s eyes.

The urge to let the moment play out longer, to let Will stew in his heady mixture of shame and desire and fury and lust, was staggering in its intensity. Instead, the blood-dark wine flowed, and Hannibal enjoyed the warm anticipation of secrets to be spilled.


End file.
